Survivor AKA What's Up With That?
by FraidyCat
Summary: Amita has waited long enough.
1. Amita Pops the Question

**Title: ****Survivor; a/k/a, "What's Up With That?"**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: It's theirs.**

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Charlie sighed and settled a little more into the corner of the couch, bringing Amita (willingly enough) with him. One of his arms was wrapped around her shoulders, and he absently rubbed her arm gently. She had been so quiet, he thought she might have fallen asleep, nestled warmly into his side. One dainty hand lay flat on his thigh, midway between his groin and his knee, and he wondered idly if he could flex his leg a little and cause a little change in location. Grinning to himself, he picked up the remote from his lap and began channel-surfing, leaving the sound turned low, so as not to disturb his raven-haired beauty.

He wasn't really searching for anything specific on the television. In truth, Charlie found himself in an unanticipated position; he was genuinely enamored with the new HDTV. Ordinarily, he did not watch enough television to care about things like picture clarity and quality of sound; if the government and the networks had not colluded to practically force him to upgrade, he doubted that he would have bothered, at least not until the old set completely broke down. He was a little surprised at how much he liked this new arrangement. Mounting the HDTV on the wall freed-up floor space, and even though the screen was obscenely large in comparison to what the Eppes had lived with for years, somehow it seemed less obtrusive up there. It only extended out from the wall for a few inches; when there was a beautiful panoramic shot of a far-away and mysterious tropical island, such as there was now, Charlie could almost pretend that the Idiot Box was really just artwork in a clever disguise.

Amita shifted beside him. As she sat up a little straighter, he was sorry when she removed her hand from his leg. Still, he turned to smile at her. "I thought you'd fallen asleep."

She returned his smile, but her eyes remained serious. "No...I was just thinking."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Sounds serious," he teased.

His own smile faded a little when she nodded. "I think so."

Now he was nervous, and he frowned slightly. "What is it?"

Amita reached up with one hand to lightly stroke his arm, which was still around her shoulders. "Charlie," she began, dropping her hand back to her lap, "I think we should form an alliance."

He allowed an uncertain grin. "I think we've done that already -- multiple times -- but I'm always game for more!"

It was her turn to frown and she slapped lightly at his leg. "I'm serious. I think it's been long enough. We've gathered enough data for a series of books. Besides, I'm tired of waiting for you to back-door me."

Charlie's eyes widened and his face reddened. A shocked "Amita!" had a quick sequel. "I promised you, I'll never insist on...something that makes you uncomfortable." By now he was looking both embarrassed and miserable. "You know. In the bedroom." He shuddered, and withdrew his arm, crossing both over his chest and hunching into himself. "Besides, I think that makes _me_ a little uncomfortable."

Bright crimson rushed to the roots of her dark hair. In one quick movement she scooted to perch on the edge of the couch and lowered her head to hide her face in her hands. "Oh, Charlie," she practically choked. Lifting her face, it was still quite magenta when she looked at him. "Dear Lord, that's not what I'm talking about!" She gestured toward the television. "I meant that I don't want you to vote me out of the Craftsman some night because you've gotten yourself all tangled up in some secret alliance!"

Poor Charlie, confused, furrowed his brow and let his eyes flicker toward the HDTV for a moment. "What the hell are you talking about?" he finally asked, turning back to Amita.

She was both offended by his cluelessness and hopelessly attracted to it. For a moment, she didn't know whether to cry, scream, or laugh. She finally decided on a mixture of all three. Turning more completely on the couch, so that she was more or less fully facing Charlie, she leaned toward him. She placed one hand on each chipmunk cheek and went in for the kill, planting an open-mouthed kiss on the professor that would have left him weak in the knees, if he had been standing. As it was, he was definitely stunned breathless when she pulled back far enough to slide one hand behind his ear, where she started playing with his hair, and the other down his stubbled chin. She spoke slowly, and plainly, as if to as child. "I. Want. You. To. Marry. Me." The she sat back on her heels and waited for a reaction.

Charlie was no longer red with embarrassment. Now, there was no color in his face at all. "What?" he squeaked.

Amita actually winked at him. "We've been dating for three years," she reminded him mildly. "I've been living with you over six months. I think it may be time for a real commitment, don't you?"

A smile started at one corner of his mouth, but he held it at bay as he loooked at her with troubled eyes. "But..._ I_ should ask _you_," he protested, his voice approaching a whine. "I wanted to ask you. I was trying to think of something really romantic and...meaningful."

She smiled at him. "Does that mean, 'Yes'?"

This time it was he who leaned toward her, his arms that reached to hold her close. "Oh, yeah," he whispered into her ear. "Dr. Ramanujan, the tribe has definitely spoken."

Amita would have laughed, if she hadn't been falling over backwards on the couch -- Charlie on top of her. In the moments that followed, an alliance was formed.

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END (Beginning?)


	2. Charlie Tells Don

**Title: ****Survivor; a/k/a, "What's Up With That?"**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: It's theirs.**

_**A/N: A recent review made me think of this story again. It's been awhile, so you should probably go back and read the first installment of this latest out-of-control oneshot.**_

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_**Chapter 2: Charlie Tells Don  
**_

Charlie waited until the waitress had filled their coffee cups and taken their orders, even though it nearly killed him. He squirmed in his seat on his side of the booth, pretended to read the menu and finally echoed Don's order, even though he wasn't exactly sure what his brother had said. "Me, too," he smiled, on the heels of Don's request. "I'll have that too."

Don regarded him with interest, taking a sip of his coffee while the girl filled Charlie's mug. As soon as she sashayed away from the table, however, he set the thick ceramic cup down in front of him and raised an eyebrow at his brother. "What?"

Charlie, who had been smiling like a maniac ever since he had met Don at the diner that morning, felt his grin waver a little. "What, what?"

Don sighed, shaking his head dramatically. "Charlie, I'm a trained investigator. Years of experience. Just because it's Saturday morning doesn't mean I can't read you like a book."

Charlie stopped smiling altogether. "What do you mean?"

Don began to enumerate his observations, ticking them off by tapping the fingers of one hand with the index finger of his other. "1. It's Saturday morning, and you were on time for breakfast. You usually keep me waiting at least fifteen minutes." Charlie bristled, but Don went on. "2. You've been squirming like a two-year-old ever since you got here. Either you've developed hemorrhoids, or you have news." Charlie reddened, and Don suppressed a grin, showing no mercy. "3. You were no more reading that menu than you were getting a haircut."

This time Charlie interrupted indignantly. "Leave my hair alone! And how do you know anyway, G-man?"

Don allowed a small smile of triumph. "It was upside-down, Buddy. Plus, you just ordered a short stack -- and we all know how you feel about pancakes."

Charlie's eyes widened, and he turned his head to look around for the waitress. "I did? Are you sure?"

Don laughed. "Absolutely. I could go on, or you could cave now. Your choice."

When Charlie turned his head back to fully face his brother, he was smiling again; he had remembered that his news must be shared, so he caved. "Amita took me to Tribal Council last night," he announced smugly.

Don sat back and considered that information. "Well," he finally said, "I hope you weren't too loud about it. Sometimes you guys wake Dad up and scare him so bad he pretends to sleep-in the next morning. He's too embarrassed to look either one of you in the eye."

Charlie blushed crimson to the roots of his curly hair. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "Please tell me you're making that up!"

Don shrugged, picking up his mug of coffee. "Exaggerating, maybe," he confessed before he took a sip. He watched Charlie over the rim of the cup and finally took pity on him. The poor man looked as if he might have a stroke, or something. He set the mug down on the table. "Don't worry," he advised. "He's just so glad you're finally getting some that he'll put up with just about anything."

Charlie let out a long groan just as the waitress reappeared with their identical breakfasts. "Is everything all right?" she asked, frowning.

Don pushed his mug aside, making room for both plates. "Just put everything here," he ordered. "My brother just remembered he hates pancakes."

She hesitated, then did as Don suggested, sneaking apprehensive glances at the red-faced man on the other side of the booth. _What kind of person ordered something he hated -- and what kind of brother let him do it, and then took the food? Who were these guys, anyway?_ She stood uncertainly on one foot. "Um...can I get you something else?" she finally ventured.

"No, thank-you," Charlie choked politely, not even looking in her direction, his attention thoroughly drawn to the formica tabletop directly in front of him.

She glanced at Don, who winked at her and smiled, setting her at ease a little. "Just bring him a couple of eggs," he suggested. "Scrambled, like his brains."

A tiny sound came from Charlie's direction and his head shot up. The waitress smiled and nodded; Charlie was glaring at his brother when she hurried back toward the kitchen.

"You're impossible," he protested weakly. Don just arched an eyebrow and started to pour maple syrup over one of his breakfasts; he thought he'd go with blueberry for the other one. He'd done a pretty good job as a big brother that morning, he reasoned, effectively taking most of the wind out of Charlie's sails. He swirled a forkful of pancake through a river of syrup and thought appreciatively about Amita. If she hadn't come to him for advise, this wouldn't have been nearly so easy -- or fun. He waited until Charlie picked up his glass of water, gulping at it in his consternation, before he leaned unobtrusively to one side and casually asked. "So. You gonna tell me about you and Amita getting married, or not?"

It was unfortunate that the waitress was just getting back with a plate of scrambled eggs when Charlie, who had just been watching for her approach, spit the water out all over his plate of eggs and one end of the table. "Oh!" she cried, leaping instinctively back as droplets of water sprayed in her direction. "Are you all-right?"

Charlie was coughing and Don leaned casually over his breakfasts to slap his brother on the back. "Sorry," he said to the waitress, his eyes crinkling in a grin as if he were sharing a secret with her; in spite of herself, she felt herself blushing. "My brother hates water, too."

Charlie's head came up as he shrugged off Don's hand. "I only hate you," he sputtered, and the waitress regarded the plateful of soggy eggs in confusion.

"I'll just..get a towel...and some more eggs," she finally announced. She turned and started back toward the kitchen, looking back over her shoulder once and wondering again: _Who were these guys, anyway?_

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END, Chapter 2

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_At some point in the future...Charlie tells Alan....._


	3. Alan Hears the News

**Title: ****Survivor; a/k/a, "What's Up With That?"**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: It's theirs.**

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_**Chapter 3: Alan Hears the News  
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Charlie had managed to play his wounded puppy eyes and put-upon little brother act sufficiently well to get Don to agree -- swear on his shield, actually -- that he would not 'accidentally' or otherwise let anything slip to their father. He was determined that at least one person would not rain on his parade.

Breakfast with Don turned into a shopping expedition; Charlie wanted to present Amita with a ring as soon as possible. Of course, Don wasn't married yet himself -- but Charlie still valued his opinion. Besides, he'd been engaged once -- to Kim. In addition, Charlie hoped to whet Don's appetite a little when it came to the whole marriage thing. His brother had teased him unmercifully over breakfast, but in the end, Charlie loved him like...well, like a brother, and the last thing he wanted was for poor Robin to be forced into the same position Amita had been. Don was almost stodgy and old-fashioned in some ways, although no-one who didn't know him well would suspect such a thing. If Robin proposed to him first, he might just turn her down out of some stupid sense of pride. Charlie would hate to see that happen.

They visited five jewelry stores before Charlie saw what he wanted. The bridal set featured a heart-shaped three-carat diamond in the center of the engagement ring. Considered of flawless quality, the diamond was a rare, delicate pink set into a white gold band. On either side of the heart nestled two perfect, tiny Akoya pearls -- Amita's birthstone. The lustrous, white spheres caught the slightest pink overtone when held to the light, and were a perfect compliment to the diamond. The matching white gold wedding band was elegantly simple, a row of tiny diamonds glittering in the precious metal. Don's eyes had widened when he saw the five-figure price tag and realized that Charlie was seriously considering the bridal set, but he didn't come close to passing out until the kid whipped out a Platinum American Express card and handed it to the salesman. Did Charlie even _have_ a credit limit? Don was actually a little relieved when he got called to a crime scene while the card was still being processed. Five stores in one morning was a lot for him -- and the rings were making him nervous. He wasn't at all sure he could spend the afternoon helping his brother find a trousseau, or whatever else the still-giddy professor had in mind. So he had promised to come by the Craftsman for dinner the next day and left Charlie -- humming! -- on his own.

With the rings zipped safely in a backpack Charlie clutched tightly -- the idea was to present the engagement ring to Amita, and then bring everything back to the store for proper sizing -- Charlie took the long way home. He stopped at a few travel agencies to get honeymoon ideas, and soon colorful brochures filled his pack. It was nearly one in the afternoon by the time he finally entered the kitchen door and smiled at his father, who was just setting an armload of sandwich fixings on a counter.

Alan smiled in return, pleased to see Charlie so relaxed and happy. "Hello, son!" he greeted. "Have you been with Don all this time?"

Charlie moved close enough to the table to rest his pack on top, but did not let go of it. "Most of it," he answered. "We...had some errands. Then he got a call." He eyed a package of deli turkey meat hungrily. "I'm starving," he said, changing the subject. "Can I have one of those?"

Alan grinned and pulled two more slices of bread from the nearby loaf. "Of course," he answered. "I would have made something else, but I thought you'd have a big breakfast."

Charlie looked a little embarrassed, which confused Alan some, and carried his backpack with him to the pantry -- which confused Alan even more. "I'm sure we have a bag of chips in here," Charlie said, routing around the shelves one-handed. "This will be fine." He snagged the chips and turned again, smiling so brilliantly at Alan he couldn't help smiling back. "Amita is coming over for dinner. We'll have something nice, then."

Alan shook his head and turned back to his sandwiches. "Amita is here for dinner frequently," he pointed out. "Not that I'm complaining. What's so spec..."

Charlie interrupted, speaking so rapidly Alan almost couldn't understand him. "Should we sit in here? Let's have lunch in here, okay? I'll set the table."

"Fine," Alan agreed after a moment of stunned silence. "I was just going to eat in my recliner and watch the game, but I'd rather stay in here, now that I have some company."

"Umm-hmm," Charlie half-hummed in a tone of voice that indicated he hadn't heard a word Alan had said. The father turned slightly and watched, bemused, as Charlie moved around the kitchen retrieving plates, silverware, a couple of beers from the refrigerator -- all one-handed. His backpack seemed to have become permanently attached to his hand.

Alan shook his head, turning back to the sandwiches. "Do you want tomato on yours, Charlie?" Most of the time, Charlie did; however, he was acting so strange that Alan was afraid to risk it.

"Oh, yeah," Charlie responded enthusiastically, as he passed close enough behind his father to squeeze his shoulder fondly. Alan chuckled and reached for a pickle. Eventually, the two had everything on the kitchen table, and they settled in for their lunch. Charlie, who was still humming in a soft, off-key, abstract sort of way, had finally relinquished his hold on his backpack -- but he had set it on the floor directly at his feet, even hooking a strap around his ankle for security. Alan began to wonder if there was something live inside.

Charlie fell into his sandwich like a man who hadn't eaten in weeks, chugging through his beer and half a glass of water before Alan could so much as lift an eyebrow. He lifted his own sandwich to his mouth, but commented before he took a bite. "What's gotten into you today, Charlie? If you were my daughter instead of my son, I'd call you giddy."

Charlie laughed and reached out for another handful of chips. "I'm happy," he answered. "Can't a guy be happy?"

Alan smiled, bits of lettuce showing on his teeth, as Charlie crunched his chips and remembered his breakfast conversation with Don. Alan noticed a slight frown when the humming stopped, and it really wasn't his fault that he interrupted Charlie's train of thought at exactly the wrong time. "Charwee?" he asked, still masticating a bit of turkey.

Charlie had been staring at the table, but now his head shot up. He looked almost guilty. "Amita and I have sex," he blurted out, then abruptly shut his mouth as the unplanned words echoed in the kitchen. A chunk of turkey flew out of Alan's mouth and bounced off Charlie's chin.

"Good Lord, son," he choked, wiping his face with a napkin and grabbing his beer. "Do you think I don't know that? I live in the same house! My bedroom is just down the hall, for Pete's sake!" He coughed and took a long swallow of brew.

Charlie dug the hole a little deeper around him. "We don't do anything...frightening," he defended. "We never meant to scare you."

Alan looked at him as if he had grown another head. "_Scare me_?" he repeated. "Charlie, this isn't exactly my first time around the block!" He balanced his sandwich on the edge of his plate and tilted his head a little as he worriedly studied Charlie. "Son, are you feeling all-right?"

For the second time that day, Charlie blushed crimson to the roots of his hair. He looked miserably at his sandwich, his appetite suddenly gone. "Don said we scare you," he muttered.

Alan barked out a hearty laugh. "It sounds to me as if Don got you pretty good this time," he said, shaking his head again and picking up his sandwich. "_Scare me_. Oh, that's rich! The only thing that scared me about your sex life was wondering if you would ever have one, my boy!"

Charlie didn't know who he was angrier at -- his father or Don -- and he abandoned his lunch and pulled his backpack into his lap, hugging it defensively. "I should kill you both," he complained. Alan had almost stopped laughing, but that just started him up again. This time bits of bread sprayed the table, and the corner of a potato chip bounced off Charlie's eyebrow. He scowled and rubbed at his head, thoroughly unhappy. This wasn't going the way he'd planned at all. Alan was still smiling and shaking his head when Charlie unzipped the pack and inserted one hand, rummaging around for a bit and then withdrawing a black velvet-covered ring box. He flipped it open and slammed it onto the table in front of his half-eaten lunch. "How about _this_," he challenged. "The social reject is getting married, and you can't stop me!" He half-stood, shouting now. "_Scared, yet?_"

This time Alan inhaled his food instead of spraying it all over the table, and he gasped and choked as half of it went down the wrong pipe. Even as he stood himself, clawing at his throat, he couldn't tear his bulging eyes away from the stunning ring in the center of the table. "Dad?" Charlie asked, frightened. Alan didn't speak, but continued to cough and choke until Charlie ran around the end of the table and stood behind his father, stretching his arms to encircle the man's chest. He placed his fist on Alan's sternum and began to feel with his thumb for his xiphoid process, trying to get his bearings.

Alan twisted in Charlie's arms until he was facing his son, and used his own strong arms to pull the boy to him, one hand behind his head. "Never give the Heimlich to someone who can still cough," he whispered into Charlie's ear, tears soaking into the curly black hair. He deposited a kiss of benediction on Charlie's head and held on more tightly, gratified when Charlie returned the pressure. "My God, son, I'm so happy for you. So happy." Charlie relaxed for a few moments in his father's arms, and when he started to pull back, Alan spoke into his ear again. "Now. Let's talk about grandchilden."

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**End  
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